


Ignite Your Bones

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post Avengers (Movie), amnesiac!Loki, be warned, because apparently i have a soft spot for a loki who doesn't remember, expect more of it., i should probably work on my other fics, just not competently, only he does remember, or linearly, the rating will probably go up later, welcome to adhd writing., will later probably deal with touchy subjects
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”His mind begins to dull and deteriorate and twist as he seeps further in to a void on a collision course with nothing, destined to spend the rest of his life in a maddening mental free fall. His memories twist and intertwine and grate against one another, dulling around the edges and dissipating in random intervals.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lights will guide you home

**Author's Note:**

> _My mother told me a story from when she was working as a hospital intern about an old lady with senility that cradled and cared for a baby doll better than some parents care for their real children. In the lady’s teenage years she had a baby, but the baby died. When she began to deteriorate due to the dementia, the woman could recall the baby, but not loosing the baby, sending her in to a constant panic trying to locate her baby. A nurse brings her a doll and a shoebox-cum-baby bed to sate the woman’s need to find, care for, and protect her baby. The woman feeds and coddles the doll, treating it as an actual child, not knowing the difference as her mind deteriorates._
> 
>  
> 
> _That's kind of where this story idea started at._  
>  _you can also find it on my secondary tumblr, avenge-the-bits._  
>  _Don't own the characters, Marvel or any affiliates thereof._

He could feel it.

_(twisting, turning, writhing, pulling, pushing, tearing at the seams.)_

It was like a thread, his mind, a stray end dangling before his grasp. He tried to fix it; he tried to tie knots to prevent further unraveling, only for it to become more disentangled in his grip.

_(how long had he been here? hours, days, months, years, millennia, eons? lifetimes and lifetimes? had the others felt the burn destruction and rebirth while he was confined in this place? he could no longer tell within the eternal darkness.)_

He'd long since lost visitors in order to keep track of the passing minutes. No one so much as passed in his direction by accident; their coldly calculated footsteps made special exception for his dwelling.

He could not use his magic, bound to the great Yggdrasil. The constant ebb and flow of ethereal magic; connected flesh to trunk, flowing in a circular motion too intense to grasp at any tendrils; too intense to utilize the essence of his very being. So intense it burned.

_(if only he could get a hand free.)_

He could not see. His emerald eyes moved lazily around, unable to focus. His pupils dilated and contracted involuntarily, taking in too much or not enough at any given time. Occasionally there were moments of intense and painful clarity tinted with azure; moments he would writhe against and try to fight, not wanting the stained glass thoughts.

_(not scared. never scared of the cerulean dreams. he was a god, and gods were never scared.)_

He could not speak, not anymore. He'd screamed curses and insults and obscenities until his throat ran dry and bled, his lips cracking, before Brokk arrived. Even after; after the thick cord was laced through his lips; after he was supposed to be silenced, he screamed. Against ripping flesh and coagulating blood, his anger seeped through until a muzzle was placed atop the stitchery, stilling his jaw and trembling lips.

_(relieved to be removed from the seemingly obligatory hatred. glad to be free of the expectancy of vile lies and resentment.)_

The liar-god worked at his wrists with maddening pace. He twisted and tugged and pulled; his appendages burned against the binding that held them in place, but he did not care; he could not care. He no longer slept. He did not allow such precious moments to slip by in such a seemingly useless manner. All he needed was on free arm; one free link to his own magic, unhindered by the constant flow of Yggdrasil.

Even as he worked, his mind began to dull and deteriorate and twist. He was seeping further in to a void on a collision course with nothing, destined to spend the rest of his life in a maddening mental free fall. His memories twisted and intertwined and grated against one another, dulling around the edges and dissipating in random intervals. They slipped from his fingertips like droplets of water, and melded in to one another to form muddy pools of half-truths and false-recollections. He could remember small pieces of people, random emotions and fragmented childhoods and several lifetimes that may or may not have been his own. He could recall pictures of places and several shattered, frozen moments in time overlaid one atop another. There were moments of far off clarity; moments of distant (and occasionally recent) memory that remained in tact and shone brighter than most of the rest, but oft made little difference to him, and he just continued to work ceaselessly at his wrists.

\- - -

Tony let out a sigh as he carefully slid his hands forward along the marble of his bar, leaning almost protectively over the freshly-poured glass of Lagavulin as the knots in his lower back stretched out a bit. His frown deepened, tugging down at the corners of his lips in a sort of grimace against the muscular protest, righting himself almost immediately with a bit of a grunt. He propped himself against the bar, his right hip bumping lightly against the edge of the smooth counter. He lifted the small glass of dark amber liquid, swirling it a bit before bringing it to his lips. It was smoky-sweet as it trailed down his throat, leaving the burn like a fond memory just beyond his uvula.

He closed his eyes loosely against the soft laughter and even lighter footsteps; he tried not to let it bother him. After all, wasn't it better this way? A minute ripple made its way through his body, causing his skin to rise up lightly like gooseflesh, a coolness radiating over exposed flesh as imagined fingers ghosted up his arm. He took another hefty swig of the dark amber liquid, opening his eyes partially as he heard the faint clicks of heels creep closer to him. Tony swept his gaze slowly, half-heartedly towards the noise, quirking his brow just barely as his chocolate brown eyes landed on the clasped hands before him. He smirked lightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely, though there was hardly any mirth behind the action. Slowly his eyes moved up the slenderer of the two arms, making his way towards Pepper's bright eyes, tracing the curve up her lip beneath too-white teeth as she bit down lightly, the ends peaked, shyly hiding laughter, as if getting she were getting caught sneaking out. He lingered on the red-head's mouth for a moment longer before his eyes flicked to the super-soldier's baby blues. Steve stood with a lopsided grin that seemed to scream "I'm sorry," as he met Tony's gaze, blond brows knitting together ever so slightly as the pair stood there like deer caught in the headlights. _It shouldn't hurt_ , he told himself, _it's better this way_. Better for Pepper, better for Tony, better for everyone. After all, it's been at least three months, right? Three months since it all fell apart, scattering across the floor like so much broken glass; every so often Tony would find that he still accidentally cut himself on that broken glass.

Of course, that was still eleven months longer than Tony expected it to last. For those keeping count, that makes it fourteen months – a year and two months – since the Chitauri invasion. Tony figured that after the incident with the nuclear missile Pepper would officially call it quits, and was totally prepared for it then. Instead, things seemed to work out from there. They were so much more intimate; they spent all of their time together, and there was some, admittedly, mind-blowing sex to accompany their newfound love for one another. That worked well, but it didn't seem to take long to loose its façade. The more the newly formed Avengers were deployed, the more Pepper seemed to become emotionally withdrawn from Tony; the more Tony reverted back to his old recklessness and late-night coffee fueled inventive streaks. The superficiality of those first few months was quickly lost and a wedge was pushed between the two that pushed away any semblance of a relationship outside of the office that the two had. In a slew of drunken insults and overreactions, anything that could've been salvaged was suddenly and irreversibly damaged, and the headlining couple of a year and a half was no more.

And of course it was Steve that stepped up. The man of the hour, the shining beacon in the ever present darkness, symbol of all things hope and justice and everything right in the world. Of course it was Steve that came through and swept Pepper off of her feet like a story-book damsel.

Tony gritted his teeth a little, chocolate brown eyes dropping down to his drink as his fingers curled tightly around the glass, removing it from the counter. He glanced up and smiled lightly and self-depreciatingly. "Don't get in to too much trouble, now, kids," he quipped with what little humor he could muster as he looked at the two sneaking around like catholic school kids. He brushed shoulders lightly with Pepper as he moved quickly past the two of them and toward the balcony to escape the sudden throat-constricting heat.

He let out a heavy sigh as the door was shut briskly behind him, loose brown curls shifting slightly as he shook his head and then promptly snaked his calloused fingers through them. If there was wetness obscuring his vision of the skyline, he wasn't going to tell a soul. He was Tony Stark, master of technology and internalizing emotions. Running his tongue contemplatively along his bottom lip to wet it lightly, he once more brought his glass of scotch to his mouth, swiftly downing the remaining contents of the bucket glass.

\- - -

He should've expected it, he supposed, two or three (or six) glasses in to that bottle of Lagavulin, well on his way to comfortable inebriation, because, really, why would he be allowed to have a drunken stupor in solitude; why would he be allowed to have on evening free of interruptions?

Admittedly, it had excited him at first. Tony Stark would be the first to admit he was not a lucky individual. Sure, he had his moments, but as a whole, through the twisted timeline that was his life, he was not generally on the receiving end of Lady Luck's beauty. So, when the white hot tail of a shooting star burst through on the horizon, he might have possibly been a little childish in the prospect, watching as it broke through the dark night sky in a burst of molten white, making little sing-song, half-drunken wishes.

He should've known – and, again, he supposed, that somewhere in the back of his mind that there were a thousand little red-alerts sounding – that, even when meant in the most jovial manner, these situations always came around to hit him on the head. This time, almost quite literally.

The liar-god lay in his self made crater for a long moment simply flexing his hand. His eyes were clenched shut against the unexpected pain, unfamiliar, salty liquid pooled in the corners, threatening to spill over at any sudden movement. He drew in a sharp, shaky, wet breath, blinking sharply to rid the tears from where they sat, clearing the liquid weakness from his gaze. He wasn't entirely sure where he was. He assumed his home. What else could it be? It's the last place he could remember being before Yggdrasil. The last place he could recall…

It took him longer than he really appreciated to right himself on shaky, pained limbs, each movement sending a sharp warning through nociceptors. He limped forward out of the crater, swaying on his feet before catching himself on a nearby object (railing? wall?), leaning heavily on to it for support. His emerald eyes scanned languidly around him, not really taking in any of the scenery; without really latching on to anything. They landed on a bearded figure, staring through him for a moment, a sharp, irritating moment of azure clarity slicing through his mind, uninvited.

_(What have I to fear?_

_The Avengers. It's what we call ourselves, sort of like a team. "Earth's Mighiest Heroes" type thing._

_Yes, I've met them._

_Yeah, takes us a while to get any traction, I'll give you that one. But let's do a head count here: your brother the demi-god; a super soldier, a living legend who kind of lives up to the legend; a man with breath-taking anger management issues; a couple of master assassins, and_ YOU _, big fella, you've managed to piss off every single one of them._

_That was the plan._

_Not a great plan. When they come, and they_ WILL _, they'll come for you._

_I have an army._

_We have a Hulk.)_

He pressed a fist hard against his tightly-shut eyes, trying to press it away with a light growl of irritation; trying to press it away because he didn't like the feeling of sitting backseat in his own mind; trying to press it away because it _hurt_. He opened his eyes, blinking away the tiffany-blue monotone, his own india-green eyes coming back in to focus, a shattered shard of memory bringing its way to the forefront of his mind as his gaze once more met that of the gawking, bearded individual.

Loki glanced down at himself, ebony brows knitting together in a broken sort of confusion, bringing his right arm away from his side, palm flat against his midsection as his broken fingers curled around his garments, loosely bunching them. He could feel a panic rise from the very core of his being, his fingers shaking lightly as he swallowed hard, his brows furrowing slightly more. He drew his lips in to a thin line, once more meeting the russet colored eyes of the other. Perhaps he would know. He would have to know, wouldn't he? He tilted his head to the side just lightly, parting his cut up lips through sticky, coagulating blood, his voice coming out a bit softer and much shakier than he would've preferred around a total stranger.

"Where are my children?"


	2. II

_(entrapped ensnared enslaved entranced dead and dead once more.)_

The words danced around his mind, slipping through grey-matter and entwining themselves somewhere against the front of his skull, eliciting a frown from the liar-god as he awaited a response from the other man. His lips were still tight in reminder of the thick magic cord that had, until recently, occupied them, its magic still a faint murmur against his pallid flesh.

_(taken. stolen. no longer your own.)_

He could feel the pace of the rise and fall in his chest quicken as he struggled to keep an impassive mask. There was a light, tingling sort of numbness that danced along his fingertips as he clenched and unclenched his mangled appendage against his coarse tunic, his patience wearing thinner with each beat of silence shared between the two men.

Loki opened his mouth, as if to speak, only to be interrupted by the other’s mangled sort of laugh – though, to Loki it sounded more like he was trying to displace his exasperated sob with humor – before he could even begin.

“Loki.”

The liar-god could feel his frown deepen, raising a curt brow towards the other man. His forename rolled off the bearded individuals tongue with such an impassive and disbelieving anger. Unwarranted, if Loki did say so himself. He hardly knew the man. His deep emerald eyes trailed away for a moment, glancing back at the self-made crater that now adorned the ground of the terrace, pursing his lips a bit as he once more locked with the unfamiliar sepia gazing back. He supposed that if a stranger dropped down and left a large crater in his terrace, he would be a bit spiteful as well.

“I know not your –” Loki waved his hand a bit, working his jaw almost unnoticeably, as if searching for the right word, a small crease forming just above his brow, “- _eiginnafn._ ”

There was another bark of the desperate laughter of before, and Loki had to search deep within himself to refrain from rolling his eyes. He didn’t have time for this. He just wanted to know where his children were.

_(entrapped ensnared enslaved entranced dead and dead once more.)_

Loki lightly growled at his own thoughts, gritting his teeth hard enough that, were he a lesser being, it probably would’ve chipped bone. He flexed his hand once more, shifting his body away from the wall in which he was leaning. He stopped for a moment, swaying dangerously. “Pray tell,” he mused, a false coolness enveloping his words. He sauntered forwards, tilting his head just lightly. “I seemed to have overlooked the _jest_.”

Tony just stared at the deity before him, jaw slightly slack as disbelief framed his features. He pressed the heels of his hands in to his tightly shut eyes; he pressed as hard as he could muster and rubbed for good measure. That Lagavulin must have been stronger than anticipated. Clearly this was all some kind of drunken hallucination. _Do people even have those?_ They must, as it was obviously the only explanation. Tony felt like crying. Screaming and swearing and cursing and crying out of sheer frustration. Drawing his lips in to a thin line, the billionaire turned his body just slightly, narrowing his eyes at the over half-empty bottle of booze that had so readily betrayed him. With a frustrated grunt he gave it a less-than-gentle tap with the toe of his shoe, prompting it on the journey to its inevitable demise on the sidewalk below.

The shorter man worried his lower lip lightly, turning back to once more face the figment of his drunken imagination. He could feel his eyebrows creeping towards his hairline as though the words were finally registering in his brain.

“Jest.” He rolled it around in his mouth a bit, as if to see how it tasted. “ _Jest?_ God, do people even actually say that anymore?” He let out a soft sigh, running an open palm against his forehead in counter-time with his head’s subtle shake. “You would think–” he continued, moving forward now, each step carefully measured, one foot in front of the other as he treaded lightly towards the ( _not real_ ) god standing on his balcony “–that, being a figment of my drunken stupor and all that, you would at least manage to have a twenty-first century _lingo_ …”

The liar-god grit his teeth, setting his jaw in irritation as the auburn-haired man seemed to ignore him. With a slight huff, he rolled his eyes, gazing setting slightly to the left of the other’s face, head tilting almost condescendingly to the side. “I don’t have time for this,” he grumbled, more to himself than to the other man. There was a fear still knotting in his chest; it was uncomfortable and foreign. “Where. Are. My –” He stopped, emerald eyes dilating a deep cerulean, fixated on a singular bronze line across the other’s wrist; the metal glistened against the city’s fluorescent lights.

_(glass. shattering glass. breaking, spilling, crashing against hard floor. A figure._

_“His name was Phil.”)_

Loki took a step back inhaling sharply. He blinked a few times, once more finding the other’s eyes. “. . . _börnin mín_.”

_(entrapped ensnared enslaved entranced dead and dead once more.)_

Again Loki blinked, his eyes glassed over with what, if one looked close enough, could be tears. “ _Börnin mín.”_ He repeated himself, muscles in his jaw twitching as his voice rose, frustration and longing and fear frantically clawing away in a desperate attempt to latch on to whatever cracks in his flawless mask they could find. He swallowed hard, giving way to a very uncomfortable fluttering in his chest. He worked his fingers, sliding them through slick raven-black hair, twining them and flexing them through tangles and curls. The longer he stood there, the more frantic he became; he could feel panic rising through his system, flooding through his muscles. _“Börnin mín…eru börnin mín? **Hvað hefur þú gert með börnin mín?!** ” _Ever rising in pitch the more he began the shout, his voice broke in to a strangled sob of a yell.

Tony blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. He was unaware that deep within his subconscious he knew…what was that? Some thick, European accent of some sort... He watched the ( _not real_ ) god before him as his stance slowly but surely became more defensive; it became more frantic.

“What the hell?!”

“Stark?”

“Stark!”

“TONY?!”

It wasn’t until he could hear the frenzied shouts of the great Captain America that he realized he was on the ground. Again, he blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. He drew in a sharp breath, propping himself up on his elbows with a wince. His mocha-tinted eyes lazily wandered around the balcony, his brows furrowing a bit as they finally rested in the patriot blue of the star-spangled man’s, and then lower, the huddled green-and-black mass that was currently being restrained in the aforementioned’s thick arms.

He could feel his lips split in to a shit-eating grin, though it was much more relief filled then they usually tended to be. He curled a dark brow as he let out a short, breathy – if not slightly manic – laugh. “Oh, good. You can see him too…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> I’m having Loki speak Icelandic.  
> It’s all Google Translate, baby. No scholarly knowledge here(;  
> Eiginnafn – forename  
> börnin mín – my children  
> Eru börnin mín? - where are my children?  
> Hvað hefur þú gert með börnin mín? – what have you done with my children?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _so, you know the song "I Know I'm a Wolf" by Young Heretics?_  
>  shameless and gratuitious overuse of lyrics in this chapter.  
> seriously. it's disgusting. 
> 
>  
> 
> _also. i don't own that, either._

So, a physical interrogation was a no go.

Tony let out an (over-exaggerated) exasperated sigh, fingers fumbling in irritation as he manually released one of the Iron Man gauntlets from his forearm, listening as the crushed metal landed on the concrete below with a solid clang. He eyed the golden metal for a moment, noting how it looked like nothing more than a scrap of aluminum foil. His chocolate irises carefully roved over the distinctly hand-shaped dent – to which the titanium-alloy rippled and curled in to, defining each individual finger-pad – that rendered the tech useless.  
 _  
Venomous smile curled over too many pearlescent teeth._

_Sharp, focused, overly-clear blue eyes that sent a shiver down his spine._

_“Oh rabbit, my claws are dull now. Don’t be afraid.”_

He was going to need a drink before he attempted that again.

Not that it mattered. It seemed like every attempt yielded the same results.  
\---  
He could hear words like whispered promises, his emerald eyes sliding shut; his mind found itself in a cerulean haze – almost comforting in its familiarity.

Almost.

_**(dear Rabbit, my legs are getting weak chasing you.)** _

The words ghosted past the shell of his ear as if the bearer actually had some sort of tenderness to its existence. As if there were anything intimate about it.

A shudder snaked its way down Loki’s spine, a muscle jumping in his clamped jaw as he felt a familiar weight upon his shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles against his shoulder blades in a bastardized imitation of comfort. The touch only made the liar-god’s muscles clench and tense, his body instinctively trying to writhe away.

_**(oh Rabbit, stop looking the other way.)** _

He didn’t want to look. Thick, pallid fingers wrapped their way around his jaw, slowly but firmly – authoritatively – turning his gaze to face him. 

Eyes like soulless black pits; empty sockets where an orb should’ve fit. A cave with a single pinprick of maddening crimson light, ever pulling towards the entrance. Blood and nothingness.

He could feel his body shake, the Mad-Titan’s grip only growing tighter in an effort to still the godling in his grasp. A smirk snaked its way on to his decaying face; the cracks on his lips tightening and pulling flesh at awkward angles against his skull.

_**(my dear Rabbit, don’t be scared. such a prize for my mistress you will be. )** _

Those hands, burning like ice down the jaw of the not-Aesir. So depraved and twisted and sick was he that leaned in to the hardened touch of the bringer of destruction and death; of the very monster the monsters themselves feared; of the man whose touch could chill even the Jotun runt.

Loki hated himself for it. Unendingly and unnervingly. Pure and vile and to the very core of his being.

_**(don’t worry, Rabbit dearest….** _

The words slid coolly against his jaw, working their way back slowly to the shell of his ear. He could almost feel those cracked stone lips brush against the tender flesh. Ebony brows furrowed slightly, knitting together towards the middle of his forehead as a dead-man’s finger wiped away an inky strand of hair, tucking it behind his ear like a mother to a child. The godling’s stomach churned at the sensation.

 _ **…we’ll be together again soon.)**_  
\---  
Tony drew his lips in to a thin line, absently tapping his fingers against the matte black casing on the tablet that rested in his hands, shifting from one foot to the other as he waited what seemed like forever for the airlock doors to release and let him through the threshold. 

He had a plan, this time. A plan that didn’t include physical contact.

His chocolate irises glanced back down at the page he had pulled up on the tablet, and then back to the airlock doors, raising his brows a bit as the sensor switched from closed to open, and a familiar rush of air caused him to wince a bit. The inventor drew in a deep breath, and the plastered on a smile and proceeded forward to the god who sat, unmoving, on his small bench inside the cell.

“What is this?” he asks, each word slow and deliberate, like he’s tasting each word as they pass his lips. Like a child learning how to read. His voice is hoarse and creaking, but Tony ignores it as the tablet is finally taken into the curious fingers of the other. It fits snugly through a thin slot towards the left corner of the cage – an area under heavy surveillance, in which they would send him food on Styrofoam trays and paper based items only.

So maybe Tony was breaking the rules a bit. What else was expected?

“It’s some light reading,” he says flippantly, eying the god through the thick walls of the cell. There was something different about the trickster this time. Less crazed, he supposed, dismissing the thoughts at the gravelly hum that made its way from the other’s throat. His mocha-tinted irises focused on the slight movement of the trickster’s fingers scrolling on the glass of the tablet.

It’s not until there is a sharp exhale that he even notices the shift in the god. Perhaps a trick of the light, but he seems more pallid, more angular and bent as he quickens his pace scrolling through the Wikipedia page. His eyes scan quickly over the words, probably not even seeing, as he lets out a high pitched keen, curling in on himself. 

Tony’s back stiffens, his brows furrowing a bit as he watches the god’s grip, spiderweb cracks scattering across the glass of the tablet. “Hey,” he calls, holding his hands up in an instinctively placating gesture, moving back towards the food-slot to retrieve the tablet.

To his (much-less than) considerable surprise, the Norse deity whips around on him quickly, tablet quickly becoming a projectile from his hands. The action does, however, make him jump, the glass shattering with ease against the thick walls at which it was aimed, plastic and components falling like confetti to the god’s rage.

Suddenly, the god is up against the glass, lips pulled back over his teeth in a feral manner much to lupine for the inventor’s tastes. His pupils are blown wide, irises barely there cerulean rings that fight to constrict as they scan quickly left to right. “Börnin mín…” he growls lowly, and wow, look at that, we’re already back to not speaking English. 

The inventor blinks at him, frowning, watching the god’s hands flex, blunt nails scraping against the cage walls. 

The god stays that way, breathing heavily and practically growling at Tony in a language that he doesn’t understand, all feral and vicious movement. It makes the titanium-alloy avenger uncomfortable, if he were to be honest, this blatant display of emotion from the god. He’s used to cold and calculating grace, not this jagged and cracked animal. He draws his lips in to a thin line, studying with a morbid curiosity. 

He finds himself oddly distracted by the aqua of his eyes. It’s an unnatural color, even more so in how it’s out of place on the raven god. Tony can’t remember having ever noticed the other’s eyes before, not really making it top priority to do any kind of deep soul searching amidst all of the ass-kicking he was doing at the time. However, there’s something unnerving about the color. It was like a child’s drawing, with no depth or dimension to the iris, just one singular color around a blackened pupil to call it done.

By the time the SHIELD agents think it’s a good idea to insert themselves into the situation, Loki is practically catatonic on the floor, back pressed up against the wall at an angle. Tony would’ve assumed he’d gone to sleep, or were dead, if it weren’t for the almost unnoticeable tremor that runs from his fingers to his forearms.  
They send a few brave SHIELD medics into the cage to check on the idle god, practically drawing straws for the opportunity.

Tony assumes that his vitals will be alright. He just wants to see his eyes.


End file.
